Our school system released plans last week for returning students to class in August. A long thread of concerns about COVID attached immediately to the announcement which offered basic information about in-person and online learning options.
In the middle of the comments and criticisms, one mother’s question:
“Where can I find the school supply list?”
I laughed out loud.
Me too, sister.
I’m ready for my daughters to go to school. I’m ready to introduce optimism, however fickle, that life may go on in ways they wish. My preference does not diminish my worry. On the contrary it potentially adds a new layer of anxiety.
Still, I’m ready.
They are ready.
Abby Kate has endured two cancelled camps this summer. Sunday night, she cried because a third one was postponed. A(nother) change of plans beyond our control.
I calmed Abby Kate’s tears. Then, I called my mom who had invited them to visit.
“Do you still want two girls this week?”
Of course she did.
I started to pack suitcases and, as I folded their clothes, considered the gift of home.
My childhood home has long been my sanctuary.
Troy State University was considered a suitcase college when I attended in the 1990s. Students deserted on the weekends and I was usually one of them. Regardless of my week, my spirit lifted a little bit higher as my Honda Accord closed the gap between my dorm and my parents’ driveway. I walked in the back door to a hug from my daddy and a meal from mom. Bonus: mom usually washed my laundry, too.
Last summer I experienced similar respite but without the hug from my daddy.
I’d spent 4 days with Abby Kate at a church camp called Passport. As GPS navigated my Ford Edge along the roads back home to Bayview, I felt a familiar surge in my spirit despite physical and emotional exhaustion. I walked in the back door as I always have and, as she always has, mom took care of lunch and laundry. I took a nap. That house is still the place where I get my best rest.
Abby Kate and Lily are resting there this week. Lily is likely lounging in an oversized chair in the corner of the living room. Abby Kate always claims the recliner. Both are probably tethered to their iPads while cable TV broadcasts in the background, Food Network or The Weather Channel.
Bidee, the name they call my mom, lets them stay up as late as they want. She fills her kitchen with foods they like. (She also did that for my brothers and me.) Bonus: their cousins sometimes come for a visit.
My childhood house is their sanctuary now, too.
Part of my heart wishes they could stay there, tucked into the slower pace of an old coal mining community that, though decades have passed, remains more Mayberry than metropolis. Reality reminds me not even Mayberry is immune to the effects of a pandemic.
COVID lingers. Life calls. And regardless of our want or approval it often calls us to hard things.
The good news is we can do hard things:
Practice patience.
Extend empathy.
Give grace.
Maybe we can demonstrate these Spirit-filled practices first towards school leaders who are stressed about plans to return students to class in August.
I dug out a card from my daddy that I remembered as I wrote about his Friday night welcome home hugs. It’s postmarked April 8, 1998.
Be careful on your way home. A BIG HUG is waiting on you.
Love & Praying,
Daddy
Sanctuary isn’t always found at a place. Sometimes it’s felt in people. They solidify our faith, hope and love even after they’re gone.
I have not had a hug from my daddy, Friday or any other night, in almost 13 years. When I miss him or need him, I wrap myself in his words. They always point me to Jesus “our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” (Psalm 46:1)
Refuge.
Sanctuary.
May we find it.
May we be it.
“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.”
(Psalm 46:1)
